


Sweet Catastrophe

by TriplePirouette



Series: Breathe Symphonies [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the “I Will Not Kiss You” Universe, Part six of the Breathe Symphonies series. Gold must  reveal a truth to Jolie about their time in Storybrooke, but it may just break both of their hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Catastrophe

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Ok, there's only one more piece I'm currently working on for this series, but I know there WILL be more in here. I'm going to take a break and try to work on my monster Sleeping Beauty/Rumbelle crossover epic that I'm writing that includes Rumpelstiltskin with a baby and Belle in the padded cell in Storybrooke. It's got all kinds of fluff and angst going on, and I'm not sure that kind of ending it will have. I just want to finish it and get it out before the end of the season. I also invite EVERYONE to send me Prompts (Rumbelle or any other fandom I write in) to keep me writing. I stopped for a while and I missed it. 
> 
> AN2: When I wrote this I told my best friend about the concept. She LAUGHED at me, not because it was funny, but because only I would think of it. These are the dark fandom thoughts I think... and she laughs at me. (I'm recommending tissues. No, seriously. I'll wait while you get a box. Yes, the whole box.)

He's used to coming home to a bright house: lights on, the smell of one kind of dinner or another wafting through the door as he opens it, the radio playing soft classical or bright swing depending on Belle's mood. The Library closes earlier than the Pawn Shop, so he's really just become used to coming home to her. The same could be said for those long ago days in the castle, but it was far too big a home to feel her influence at the front door like he can in this world. 

 

Except today something is wrong. The house is dark, there is no music, no warmth, coming from from the kitchen. In the months they've been here this hasn't happened once.

 

“Jolie?” he calls out, careful to use her Storybrooke name just in case there are unexpected ears about. He closes the door behind him, calling her name again. “Jolie? Love?” He flicks the hall light on and sheds his coat, his heart beating as he makes his way to the dark, still kitchen. He's hoping to see a note: _Picking up dinner!_ or _At the store, back soon!_ or even _Out with the girls, dinner's in the refrigerator_ would have been nice. But there's no note, no change. The dishes from breakfast are still sitting in the drainer, nothing's been touched since they left this morning.

 

His heart is pounding hard now, almost more than he thinks this frail human form can take. His cane ticks a panicked beat as he limps as fast as he can through the ground floor finding nothing but darkness and empty rooms, then up the stairs. He's halfway up when she's revealed to him. He stills, the breath rushing from his lips. She's sitting in the dark on the edge of their bed, just visible through the doorway, her eyes straight ahead, hands tucked together tightly in her lap. She doesn't move, not an inch.

 

He regains his breath and calls out to her. “Belle?” The last few steps fly under his feet as fast as he can without sacrificing his knee. She turns her head, a questioning sound pulling tight in the back of her throat, her eyes still not quite focused.

 

It isn't until he's nearly standing over her that he sees the fog clear and recognition dawn in her eyes. “Rum? Oh! You're home early...” She fidgets, but keeps her hands tightly wrung together. She makes to stand but he puts his hand on her shoulder, pressing her gently back to sit on the mattress.

 

He sits next to her, his hand falling to her knee and kneading it softly through the cotton of her skirt. His heart hasn't quite slowed yet and his words come out breathless. “Actually I'm a bit late, love.” She shakes her head, blinking quickly and licks her lips. It's as if she can't believe it. He can't help but feel something is truly wrong: her body is tense, her mind far away- it is everything he is not used to with his beautiful wife. Finally he can wonder no longer and lets the question slip from his lips, “What's wrong?”

 

She's looking at the wall again with her eyes unfocussed and a million thoughts fly through his mind. Is she losing her memories of their former life? Is she losing her memories of this life? Has the Queen realized her mistake? Will she take this woman from him? Just as he's about to ask again she shakes her head tightly. “Oh, nothing. Nothing's wrong. I'll just... I'll go start dinner...”

 

She tries to stand again, not meeting his eyes, but he won't have it. He drops his cane, reaching over and moving to stop her when something falls from her hands.

 

A white plastic stick.

 

With a little blue minus sign.

 

They freeze, their fingers and hands interlocked from when they both fumbled to catch the falling object. He simply stares straight at the offending object until he can see her chin trembling from the corner of his eye. Her breathing changes, and he knows that she's trying very, very hard not to cry.

 

In their old world a woman of child bearing age that was married simply expected to eventually be pregnant. They spent time wondering, but it didn't matter much if they were or not until it was time to fetch the midwife and the baby came. It was a duty to carry on the familial line, not something that was scrutinized or planned as much as it was in this world. There were no prenatal vitamins to take or baby books to read or sonograms to have; a woman became swollen with child or she didn't. They absolutely, positively did not have any little white sticks with little blue signs that had the ability to make or break a heart.

 

He reaches out and takes her tangled fingers in his, squeezing, but does not know what the right step is at this moment. He has seen her cry in happiness and seen her cry in the deepest of despairs, but he has never seen her sit staring despondently for what he assumes must have been hours. She turns her face to his, her bottom lip tight within her teeth, eyes pooled with tears. “Why are you crying, love?” he finally whispers out, sadness tinging his own words at how helpless she seems to her own emotions.

 

She shakes her head, gulps audibly and blinks the tears back into her eyes. There's his brave girl that he is normally so happy to see, but her knows her heart is breaking. “I'm not.” She holds his hands tightly, but he watches as she forces herself to believe that she is not upset. “Fine. I'm fine.”

 

He stands to his full height and pulls her to his chest, hugging her tight. Belle pulls her arms close to her body but leans heavily into him. He tucks her head under his chin, hands running over her shoulders and back as he whispers into her hair, “You're very much not fine. Tell me.”

 

She hiccups once and he can feel the silent tears through his shirt as her body starts to shake. With a deep breath her voice comes out strangled by emotion. “It's been so long. I mean, I don't normally think about it, but I realized today that I haven't... Not once did I get my...” She's still a demure princess when it comes to some things, even about her body which he knows oh so intimately. She ghosts over it anyway, and knows he understands. “Not since we've been here. That's not normal for me. So I thought... I thought I was pregnant.” The last word comes out in a sob, and he shushes tightly into her hair. One of her arms circles around his waist, her other hand holding his tie tightly and tugging as if he can pull her from her despair. This cry is different for her: it's just tears, a physical reaction that she's unprepared for making it's way through her body that she's desperately trying to stave off. There are no hysterics, just tears and hitched breath and beneath it all he can feel her confusion.

 

“Please, love,” he says, kissing her forehead and gently whisking tears away with his thumb, “please tell me why you're crying.”

 

“I... I don't know.” She forces out the tired whisper. “All morning I spent in the Library just thinking about it; what it would be like- you, and me, and a little one... Then I was wondering if you'd even want another- your son...” she trails off and sniffles, not wanting to say more on that particular subject than she has to, “And I wasn't even sure. I couldn't decide which I wanted to see: the little plus or the little minus. When I finally saw it...”

 

“Yes,” he says tightly, his own voice suddenly choked with emotion, “Yes, I see.” He holds her tight for all the minutes that he couldn't be with her today. He holds her for the hours she spent thinking of these things alone while he bored himself silly balancing books in his quiet shop. He holds her in the dark quiet of their room for as long as he can stand before he needs to escape, before he needs a minute to collect himself or risk falling apart in front of her. He clears his throat and pulls away, pressing her shoulders gently until she sits on the bed behind her. He hides the wince as he bends to take off her shoes and swings her stockinged feet up on the bed. Gold pulls out a clean white handkerchief from his back pocket and taps gently at her tears before cradling her head and prompting her to lie back into the pillows. She smiles gratefully and takes the handkerchief when he offers it.

 

Gold drifts a kiss on her forehead and traces a finger over the line of her chin. He smiles, as much as he is able with the rolling of emotion in his stomach and bends with a bit of effort, pretending to straighten her shoes but grabbing the small plastic stick when she isn't looking and tucking it into the sleeve of his jacket as he grasps his cane. He steps from the room, tall and proud as he can be.

 

As soon as he's down the hall, he lets his shoulders slump and leans heavily into his cane. Gold lets the small plastic stick slip out of his sleeve and into his palm. He spends a long moment looking at it before he closes his fingers over the small blue symbol. He cannot help the tears in his eyes just as he cannot bare to face what he must tell her.

 

But he must.

 

He leaves the small stick on the edge of the sink in the bathroom down the hall; far enough away that they don't have to see it, but close enough that it's there if she wants it. He turns and limps down the stairs. It will be a long night, tea is in order.

 

When he makes his way back it's slower and with a more pronounced limp, his cane abandoned so he can carry the tea cup and rose-painted mug to the bedroom. She turns over when she hears the slow, heavy gate in the doorway, a new tear arising in her eye when she sees how he's returned to take care of her. She scoots over, leaving the side closest to him empty so he can sit. He reaches out, handing her the steaming mug, but leaves his chipped cup sitting on the bedside table as he sidles next to her in bed.

 

She takes a sip, letting the warm, sweet liquid slide down her throat. She closes her eyes with the sensation, but snaps them open again when she feels the backs of his fingers running over her puffy, red cheeks. “So upset...” he whispers, pain in his voice.

 

Belle twists away from his hand and the emotions it wells up that she's just tamed, reaching out and putting her mug on her own bedside table. She turns back with a small smile on her face, sliding up to the headboard and crooking her finger at him until he shifts to get his back against the carved wood. She lets a shaky laugh out, trying her best to escape the heavy emotions rolling within her, and slowly moves her hands over him in reverence rather than sensuality. She slides the jacket off his arms and tosses it to the end of the bed, slips his tie loose and tosses it somewhere near the jacket as well. He lets her lift his hands with the tiniest hint of a sad smile on his face as she works to make him comfortable, letting her her fiddle with his cufflinks until he has to step in and undo them himself. Belle just laughs, a hearty sound after the tears, and moves to slip his loafers off.

 

She slides back up his side and rests her head on his shoulder, wrapping her own arms around her stomach. He takes no time in letting his arms wrap protectively around her, cocooning her in his warmth. The sound of their breathing, still laden with the occasional hitching of unspent emotion, is all the sound that floats through the dusky room. The sun peaks in through the edges of the curtains, and he can still see every detail of her clearly. They spend a long moment laying there, the tea he made nearly forgotten It was the time to think and the gesture that they both needed more than the actual drink, he knows, and doesn't mind that it sits cooling on the bedside tables. His fingers start to drift, roaming over her and smoothing the wrinkles in the sweater she wears and drifting to straighten out her skirt over her thighs.

 

“I'm sorry I didn't make dinner,” she says softly, the trivial things so much safer to talk about.

 

He strokes up and down over her elbow. “No matter,” he finds the quip at the tip of his tongue, and smiles as he doesn't hold it back. “I'm sure we'll survive somehow.”

 

She laughs, but it is only a small sound compared to what he's cataloged in his mind as 'Belle's laugh.'

 

She snuggles into his chest, her hand slipping from around her stomach to drift over his heart. Her fingers take up a gentle rhythm, tapping a waltz over the tiny embroidery there. “Would you have liked a child?” she finally whispers, caution tempering her spirit.

 

He doesn't speak for a moment, only continues the path his hands have taken up roaming over her shoulder and elbow. He sighs finally, a bit of whimsey invading his melancholy. “A little girl full of your bravery, or a little boy full of your fire?” He swallows tightly. “Oh, yes. That would have been lovely.”

 

One of her legs slips between his knees and he can feel the way that her body wants to crawl into his: the sadness, the confusion, the emotions that she wants to escape any way she can. Her words catch him off guard. “It didn't occur to me to want it, not back in the castle. We couldn't even kiss, I mean-”

 

He smirks at the naivety of her upbringing. “ _That_ we could have done,” he whispers, letting his fingers run through her hair. “We could have made a child, should you have desired. But I would not have wanted to...” His voice becomes wistful, sad in a way she has not heard since that night sitting at his spinning wheel when he first told her about the owner of the tiny clothes. “I lost a son over the Dark Magic, it is not for the rearing of children. It is not even for those in love, though we defied that every day, did we not?”

 

Belle smiles up at him brightly, finding one of his hands by touch and linking her fingers with his. “We did. And you're right, I would not have wanted a child there, either.” The silence after she speaks is heavy, and her smile fades.

 

“But now?” he asks, curious.

 

Her eyes go far away, he can almost see the future she's envisioning. He's played it for himself a thousand times already. “Now? Here? With twenty eight years between us and the Dark Magic again?” She shrugs. “I do.” She tucks deeper into his embrace and he squeezes gently. “All morning I watched the children in and out of the library. The young mothers with the children who could barely read looking at picture books, the groups walking over from the school working on reports... It was something I had never thought about. In court it would have been required of me to produce an heir. It was a given, a job that I would have simply done. Then you and I... and the castle was no place for a child and our love was still too new to even think... but here? Here where I can wake up with you every morning, go to bed with you every night, where we share this love that we've built and there isn't any threat of evil queens, just silly politics and gossiping neighbors and where we have an empty room down the hall...”

 

Her ramblings bring a tear to his eye, but he blinks it back. “Me too, my love, me too.”

 

“But then I must be sick,” she whispers.

 

He startles at the sad and resigned way she says it. The way it makes his heart pound in his chest sits him up straighter. “What?”

 

“It's been three months without any... and if I'm not pregnant, then there must be something wrong.” She says it as if it is some far-gone conclusion. He knows that this, too, was surely running through her mind all afternoon. He cannot wait any longer.

 

“No,” he says simply, laying back and gripping her tighter. “You are not sick.”

 

“Wishful thinking may not make it so,” she says softly.

 

He shakes his head and kisses her hair. “No, Belle. I know for sure. You are not pregnant, and you are not sick. You can be neither.”

 

She stirs in his arms, starts to protest, but he holds her tight. “Please, listen?” With a sigh she tries to relax into his embrace. “Remember when I told you that we'd be here for twenty eight years?” She nods. “The movement of time is only an illusion. It feels real, time seems to pass, most clocks tick by with it, but look carefully, not all clocks move. We...us... the people who are trapped in the curse, are trapped in time. For us, nothing is changing. Cinderella, Ashley, will be pregnant for twenty eight years. The children? They will be the same age for twenty eight years. And slowly, oh so slowly, they'll start to forget that time hasn't truly passed as the curse changes everyone's memories.”

 

“You're saying...?” Belle's prompt is soft, sad but strong.

 

Gold looks down, waits for her to look up so he can look her in the eyes when he tells her this. “We'll exist for days that blend into one another, becoming a vague past and doing the same things over and over. The seasons will change, the world around us will grow, and they'll forget how long we've been here. But you and I, we'll know. We'll have twenty eight years of memories, where they will have vague memories of a few months. We're frozen in time. Nothing can change, it is part of the curse. I'm telling you that we can not have a baby, or be that kind of family, because you can never get pregnant.” His voice chokes by the end, and he presses his lips tight together. “I'm sorry, love.”

 

She looks down, shaking her head. “It didn't register, I didn't think...” She sniffs back a tear. “Truly frozen in time... We'll not age?”

 

“No.”

 

“There will be no change?”

 

“No.”

 

“I can...” She clears her throat, but the emotions claw at her voice. “I can never get pregnant?”

 

His head falls to hers, his lips skimming the soft skin of her forehead. “Not while we're here love, no.”

 

He can't tell what she's feeling. Her body is a live wire, unable to sit still when faced with so much information, but not wanting to do anything but lay. He had thought she understood, but then again he never explained the complexities to her. Gold stared at the blank look on her face and longed for the smile that he had seem on her lips just this morning. That smile was the reason he barely touched on so many of the tragic side effects of the curse, he never wanted to see it waver.

 

Belle slips from underneath his arm. She reaches out and grabs her mug from the table, taking it tightly in both her hands. She slides up the bed and twists, pressing her back to his chest as she sips the lukewarm tea. He carefully rests a hand on her belly, pulling her tightly to him. Her hand falls over his, rubbing his knuckles gently. She can't fathom being more than a few inches from him right now, her nerves are raw and ragged and he centers her in a way that feels far more familiar than the emotions rolling in her chest.

 

He rests his chin on her shoulder and lets his eyes drift down over her body. What he would give to watch her swell with his child, to watch her glow with pregnancy. What deals he would make to see her carry a tiny bundled baby around the house, singing to it in her sweet soprano. He would sell his soul all over again for just one more chance at a family, especially a family with her. But her belly will never swell with life, her breasts will not fill with milk, she will stay as small and lithe as she is today day after day for twenty eight years.

 

“I suppose,” she starts, sipping her tea and keeping the mug by her lips, “that just like a castle filled with Dark Magic, a curse is no place for a child, either.”

 

Gold tells himself to be happy for the time together they have, but in this moment it is hard to focus on anything except the one thing that will never be theirs. “No, no I suppose not.”  


End file.
